


Five people who don't listen to Jaskier (and one person who always does)

by notebooksandlaptops



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 5 + 1, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, JUST, Kaer Morhen, LOVES JASKIER, Love Confessions, Our Boy, Professor Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing a Bed, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Winter At Kaer Morhen, and listens to him, and that is literally the motivation for this whole story, deserves people who listen to him, jaskier's shitty parents, this story was written out of spite and a need to make sure people know that Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26373754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notebooksandlaptops/pseuds/notebooksandlaptops
Summary: Jaskier was all too aware of the titles he’d accumulated over the years.Jaskier: Greatest Bard on the continent, friend and companion to the White Wolf, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, renowned Professor of the grand Oxenfurt Academy, considerate, heartfelt lover and, ultimately, when it came down to it, a right annoying prick.“Fucking bard,” the innkeeper muttered under his breath, for once far more perturbed by Jaskier’s presence than by the Witcher who stood behind him, “do you ever stop talking?”-///-Or, Five people who don't listen to Jaskier (and one person who always does)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 87
Kudos: 889





	Five people who don't listen to Jaskier (and one person who always does)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Jaskier's parents make a cameo in this fic and they're Not Very Nice to him (manipulative, emotionally abusive) - it is a short scene as this is a short fic, but please do look after yourself and don't read if that could be triggering for you.

-//1//-

Jaskier was all too aware of the titles he’d accumulated over the years.

Jaskier: Greatest Bard on the continent, friend and companion to the White Wolf, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, renowned Professor of the grand Oxenfurt Academy, considerate, heartfelt lover and, ultimately, when it came down to it, a right annoying prick.

“Fucking bard,” the innkeeper muttered under his breath, for once far more perturbed by Jaskier’s presence than by the Witcher who stood behind him, “do you ever stop talking?”

Jaskier paused mid-sentence, open-mouthed at the man's utter rudeness. But then as the only innkeeper for a good fifty or so miles, Jaskier supposed that he could afford to talk shit to his clientele. Where else were they going to go? Particularly in the kind of storm that was raging outside.

“I’ll have you know—” Jaskier finally regained his ability to speak, if only to spite the smirk growing on this smug bastards face.

“We’ll just need the one room. Size isn’t an issue,” Geralt stepped in, deep voice putting a stop to Jaskier’s possible tirade like a door slammed shut.

The innkeeper regarded the swords on Geralt’s back, the hood pulled up to cover white hair. “Aye,” he muttered, “but I won’t have any playing of your damn instruments in my establishment. I got customers tryin’ to sleep. They don’t need ya little yapping dog keeping them awake.”

Jaskier bristled.

Geralt let a hand fall on Jaskier’s shoulder, fingers digging _just_ enough, enough to be a warning and a comfort all at once. _Don’t do anything stupid,_ they said, _I’ll handle this_.

As they trudged up the stairs, Jaskier wondered if Geralt was secretly glad he wouldn’t have to put up with Jaskier’s music for the evening.

-//2//-

The Countess de Stael was utterly _magnificent._

Jaskier was taken by her the moment he saw her; her fine shimmering dress, her pretty brown eyes. He’d thought of fifty metaphors of which to sing her praises with before he even spoke to her, a few hundred after their first conversation.

(And if she was a welcome distraction from the fact that Geralt was pissing off not talking to anyone after the incident with the Child Surprise, Jaskier tried not to think on it. He should probably stop traipsing off around the continent anyway – grow up, like his parents were always telling him to)

There is a future here, he thinks. Or at least, there certainly _could_ be. He’s a viscount, she’s a countess, and they’d make quite the match. They’d have _very_ pretty babies, that is for sure (he tries not to think about his theoretical future kids playing with Geralt’s Child Surprise once the Witcher finally gets his head out of his ass. If he fails…well. He doesn’t need to tell anyone). It’s much like his childhood, really, when he moves into her manor house only without the fear of his parent's wrath looming over him. He eats well, sings often, enjoys elaborately thrown banquets and balls, and falls asleep on fine silks.

As most things in his life do, however, it falls apart.

It falls apart with a parallel which is perhaps a bit too much to square off.

“Thiandrell said—”

“Who’s Thiandrell, dear?” the countess lounges back in her chair, not looking up from her stitching.

“I’ve told you about him, remember?” Jaskier _definitely_ has. Meeting Geralt, and the subsequent adventure, is one of his favourite tales to tell.

“Hmmm…I can’t recall,” the countess shrugs.

Jaskier recounts the story again, trying not to wonder if she’ll forget once more, or if she’s even listening. She does seem to be concentrating quite intensely on her stitching.

A few days later Jaskier frowns into his stew. She’d said she had the stew specially made for them, but it’s got _peas_ in it. He’s told her he doesn’t like peas, right? Then again, maybe the chef slipped them in without checking…

The breaking point comes though, with a definitive snap, the night of a grand ball.

“—and then I said, Geralt, if you didn’t _want_ me to stroke the baby griffins you should have said so before and—”

“Julian, dear, be quiet,” The Countess says rather suddenly, cutting him off, “we’re trying to have a discussion here about the grounds. Nobody cares for your ramblings.”

Jaskier packs his things and leaves the next day, filling up his flasks before he goes with the best wine he can’t find in the damn cellar.

At the nearest town, there is talk of a white-haired witcher who’s been fishing in a nearby lake. Jaskier staggers towards Geralt and away from whatever could have been in that manor house of de Stael.

-//3//-

“Nobody ever _fucking_ listens to me!” Jaskier took the time to shout, diving into the cave opening to seek shelter from the current _rain of fire_ being hurled at them by the mage.

Yennefer rolled her eyes, “how was I supposed to know the bastard’s child was a damn _half-fae,_ ” she growled.

“Because I _told you_ that the whole damn family was being shifty about something—”

“And how, exactly, was I supposed to pick up the relevant information out of all the prattle that falls out of your mouth on a daily basis?” Yennefer manages to respond even as she throws up a spell herself, a wave of energy pressing up against the walls of the tower, shaking the foundations.

Jaskier almost growls (God, he’s been spending too much time around Geralt recently). Always _his_ fault when people don’t _listen_ to him, never the person who was supposed to be paying attention.

“We’ve got about a minute to decide if we want to run or we want to fight back,” Yennefer continued, ignoring whatever indignant look might have come across Jaskier’s face.

“Well, I’m not in favour of sticking about to get _burnt_ to death, are you?”

Yennefer’s smirk glints, “coward,” she breathes, challenge in her tone.

“Yennefer don’t—”

But she was already dashing forward, fingers outstretched, ready to call chaos to her palms.

Jaskier sighs, digs out the dagger Geralt gifted him and – reluctantly – follows.

Maybe he’s not a mage or a witcher or even somebody that gets _listened_ to.

But he’s also, most certainly _not_ a coward.

-//4//-

They’ve been heading towards Lettenhove for a few days now.

With every step, Jaskier can feel his heart sinking down into his feet. It is the very last place he wants to be, and yet, the humiliation of explaining so to Geralt is too crushing to bare thinking about. He is a grown man; accomplished in his field, if not in the ridiculously high standards his parents always set for him. He should be able to go home without much of an issue.

Yet here he is, staring at the damn fisherwoman like she’s just slapped him in the face, instead of merely informing them that there is a contract out for a monster issued by none other than the _Lettenhove’s,_ the fucking _Pankratz’s._

He wants to fucking die.

He can feel Geralt’s gaze on him, can feel the confusion and measurement there. He has to do something. He _has_ to do something. _Now, now,_ Now—

“Ah, well. If mum and pops want something doing, better get to it quick,” he slaps his hand together and tries to ignore the way the Fisherwoman’s demure suddenly changes, the way that she looks at him differently.

He’s also, resolutely, ignoring Geralt.

“Jaskier—” Geralt begins, when they leave the woman.

But Jaskier cuts in, talking, talking, talking. He can hear himself getting faster and faster, explaining the castle, explaining his parent's roles, explaining _his_ role, explaining everything and nothing all at once. He explains the mechanics but not the reality, he explains the fiction his parents will paint instead of the life he lived here. He talks so that Geralt has no choice but to listen (or not, _nobody will listen to you, son, you talk too much, you annoy too many, shut up, shut up, shut_ up).

The meeting with his parents goes about as well as he expected: they show thinly veiled disgust for Geralt, while embracing their returning ‘son’ with both arms.

The contract is sorted, the price unfair, and Jaskier is just about to leave with Geralt to kill the thing when there is a hand on his shoulder, “do I not get to spend time with my only son and heir? Or are you skipping out on your duties so soon?”

So Jaskier stays, while Geralt goes. He stays and he lives through the snide attacks, the way they put him down at every turn, for every choice, without fail, without question.

He sits through it all, because what else can he do? They won’t listen. They never listen.

It feels like an age before Geralt makes it back.

But eventually, he does. Jaskier has to hold himself back from running to him when he walks through the door with a slimy-ass head in his hands. He has to hold himself back from pressing himself to Geralt’s gut-soaked body and begging them to leave, leave now, leave right fucking _now._

He doesn’t.

“So, where are you going next, Witcher?” Jaskier’s mother asks, “very far?”

Geralt is, if anything, even less talkative around Jaskier’s parents. “I imagine so,” he says finally.

“Ah, well, such a shame. You don’t mind if we steal your bard do you, until you can find the time to…return,” Jaskier’s mothers voice suggests that Geralt would be less welcome to come back than a plague might be.

“Mother, by the Gods, I told you, I can’t just leave Geralt—”

“Of course, we understand he gets you more coin in the lowly establishments,” Jaskier’s father cuts in, as if Jaskier didn’t even try to speak, “we’re more than happy to pay you extra for the loss this will cause.”

“I’m not a fucking whore you can buy—”

Jaskier’s mother shoots Jaskier a dirty look for his bad language, but otherwise is perfectly content to continue their fucking _haggle_ with Geralt over Jaskier’s freedom, “He’s got duties, you see, duties he’s been reminisce on and—”

“I believe that your son is trying to talk to you,” Geralt speaks, “and I can assure you, I don’t need your coin or your son. I am perfectly capable without either.”

Jaskier feels something break in him, Gods, no, Geralt can’t leave him here, he can’t, he can’t—

“I will, however, take the coin I am owed for the contract because we had a deal,” Geralt’s look is fierce, almost as fierce as when he’s drunk too many potions and is coming down from a fight, “and I will hopefully leave with your son by my side, not because I need him, but because he wants to come with me. I do not travel with him for convivence. I travel with him because he is—” Geralt falters for a moment, and Jaskier almost thinks that will be the end of it.

It is not.

“Because he is my friend,” Geralt finishes, finally, quietly, but firmly.

There have been many times when Jaskier could have kissed Geralt. In fact, given the chance, he’d never _stop_ kissing Geralt.

However, right now, he has never wanted to more.

When he leaves, he leaves with Geralt and Roach by his side and Geralt muttering about never coming back again under his breath.

Jaskier loves him so fiercely it aches.

-//5//-

“You failed Pankratz class?”

The sound of his name is the only thing that alerts him to one of the many conversations around him. Winter should have starved off students from huddling around in the outside common areas, but then, students tended to have minds of their own; something the faculty discovered anew every term like it was _surprising,_ like they weren’t trying to cultivate those very minds.

“Course I did,” the boy muttered back, clearly unaware that he’d attracted outside attention, “have you ever sat in on one of his lessons?”

“No, but he’s a _legend._ The guy travels with a Witcher, a real Witcher. He’s—he’s _renowned.”_ The girl had the kind of awe in her voice that once would have lit a flame in Jaskier’s heart, but which now simply makes him uncomfortable.

He’d not trade his life of adventure for anything, not in the whole world, but the _pain_ of it? That was rarely accounted for by admirers. See: getting kidnapped and tortured, the years of unrequited love, the monsters that got a bit too close and personal and dealing with Lamberts pining over his dear witcher friend whenever they ran into him on the path.

“He _rambles,_ ” the boy corrected, “I swear, one thing, then another, then another. It’s like listening to a child go on and on, and rarely half as interesting as he seems to think it is.”

Jaskier swallowed.

_Just one student, just one student—_

“Like, how am I supposed to pay attention to everything he says? Half of it won’t be on the fucking test anyway. I don’t see why my supervisor is so insistent I go to the damn things. If anything, they’re a chance to catch up on sleep.”

Whatever the girl might have said was swallowed up by the wind as the two continued their walk, leaving Jaskier hidden in his little alcove all alone.

He tried not to pay attention to it.

This was his lot, after all, wasn’t it? The lot of all bards? Background noise, background music, background _people._ There to fill in pauses where silence would be too much.

Fuck, how his mother would be filled with glee to realise that her chatty-attention-seeking son was nothing but a pretty ornament, even for his classes, even at his _fucking job._

Jaskier sighed, pressed on through the cold air. Spring would come soon, at least and perhaps next year, he’d winter at Kaer Morhen instead.

-//+1//-

Kaer Morhen should have felt like the most isolated place in the world. The cracks in the walls spoke of the wind billowing outside, reminded the inhabitants of the snow-covered pass that wouldn’t allow even a Witcher through the icy freeze.

Jaskier wondered then, why it was here that he felt truly and completely _safe._

The grand hallways and rooms spoke of his upbringing, yet their rugged unkempt design, the parts left to nature or that needed work, kept the place from taking on that domineering sense of imposed rigidity and class. And, unlike the Countess de Stael’s manor, the company never made Jaskier feel like he was a bore.

Add to that the privilege of seeing the Witchers at their most relaxed, at seeing them with their guard down and their smiles unleashed…it was perfect.

It was _safe._

Perhaps he was still background noise here. He knew that even in asking the others for their tales from across the years, he still spoke more than his fair share. He told the dazzling stories of his and Geralt’s adventures told of what he had learnt in the gem of a library hidden in the keeps south wing, told of the gossip he’d managed to gather in his latest trips to court. Likely he repeated himself, tripped over himself in his eagerness.

Yet here at the very least, he was in the company of friends.

Eskel would share his drink with Jaskier and let him pet his goat, Lambert would roughhouse with him, Vesemir would explain whatever monster Jaskier might want information about and Geralt—

Well, Geralt was Geralt. But far, far more relaxed.

It was sweet, really. He would get drunk with his brothers, he would talk more, he would smile more. Sometimes, when they were sat about the fire at night, he’d lean his head on Jaskier’s shoulder, or steal sips from Jaskier’s drink.

Jaskier wasn’t complaining.

He let the days wash over him like the lapping of waves on a shore, each one unique, each one similar, each one as peaceful as a long summer day.

“Lamberts cooked dinner,” Geralt announced, coming into the small study room Jaskier had affectively claimed as his own – if only because of the relative warmth provided by the small fire. “So you’d probably be best staying up here and not getting food poisoning.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, “be nice to your brother.”

“Practicing fatherhood for when all your bastard offspring finally show their faces?” the smallest of smirks littered Geralt’s face. Jaskier was enamoured by it, though perhaps slightly less enamoured by it than he was by the old journal pulling at his attention.

“You were reading that one a few weeks ago,” Geralt commented, “if you’re trying to find a new travelling companion in these journals, I’m afraid that it’s a lost cause. They’re all long gone.”

“Alas, I guess I’m stuck with your grumpy arse,” Jaskier stuck out his tongue playfully.

“Suppose it's for the best. Your friend,” he nodded to the journal in Jaskier’s hand, “seems to have been quite a handful, having a city almost burnt down trying to get a nest of downers, joining whorehouses for the winter months.”

“You’ve read it?” Jaskier wasn’t aware anyone had touched the old journals for a century at least. They were dusty, and a lot of them were written in a combination of older dialects almost dead and gone.

“You told us, the first time you went through it,” Geralt shrugged, “can’t see the point in going through them much now.”

“I am the patron musician of Witchers. Alive _and_ dead.”

“I thought you were the patron musician of the white wolf.”

“Jealous?” Jaskier wiggled his eyes, prodding. He knew all too well that Geralt _had_ been a little jealous, when Jaskier first sang a song for one of his brothers. He’d mellowed though. Jaskier had proved himself, he thought, in sticking with Geralt through the almost-destruction of a whole continent, and in raising his daughter.

“I’ll be downstairs, I’ll tell them you need some time alone with your books.”

“Save me some food – if it’s properly cooked,” Lambert was an occasional bastard, after all, but hey, he survived on the road well enough alone. He couldn’t be _too_ bad at making meals.

It took Jaskier longer than he’d expected to finally drag himself out of the warmth of his study and into the halls beyond, throwing on one of Geralt’s old cloaks he’d commandeered for the winter with the nice fur lining.

Hopefully, Geralt _had_ saved him something. He didn’t particularly feel like spending the evening lurking around the kitchen trying to salvage something from the pantry.

The voices of the Witcher’s echoed down the hall, loud and clear as they never were outside these walls.

“I refuse to believe you know all this,” Lambert was bellowing, clear laughter in his tone, “you’re hardly a social gossip, Geralt. Unless Roach has been visiting enough parties to tell you all her secrets.”

“Jaskier told me,” Geralt’s response comes.

“And _you_ listened? To tales about the damn Count and Countess’s sexual preferences?” Jaskier could almost picture Eskel’s raised eyebrow, his look of disbelief.

Even kind Eskel, with his heart of gold, couldn’t imagine listening to Jaskier all of the time, apparently. Not that Jaskier blamed him. _Too much, too much, you talk too much._

“Why wouldn’t I?” Geralt responded, “he was talking to me.”

“He talks _a lot._ ” Lambert pointed out, “lovable little bastard that he is.”

“I…” Geralt trailed off, and Jaskier assumed that would be the end of it, but-- “I like listening to him.”

Jaskier frowned, fingers curled and pressed into his palm. _Liar._ He wanted to shout. Nobody liked listening to him.

Instead, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the bedroom, uncertain even of his own actions.

_Liar._

-///-

“You didn’t come downstairs.”

Jaskier didn’t look up at the open door, just sank further into the furs and blankets on his bed. He didn’t want to see Geralt’s face. Not now. Not here. _Liar. Liar. Liar._

“Tired,” he grunted, when he didn’t hear the sound of retreating footsteps.

“You seemed fine earlier,” Geralt countered.

Jaskier shrugged, though he doubted that Geralt could see it.

Geralt – infuriating, wonderful, annoying, irritating, _lying_ – stayed quiet. But Jaskier felt the bed dip underneath his weight a moment later. As if they were staying in an inn and had to share.

“There’s plenty of beds in plenty of rooms, Geralt.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, still, but Jaskier could feel him settling beside Jaskier. Ignoring him. _Not listening to him._ See? _Liar._

“Fuck off, Geralt.”

No movement.

Jaskier clenched his fingers against his palm once more, finally shoving off the blankets just so he could glare at Geralt, “You’re not _listening_ to me.”

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, “I am,” he replied, “but I’m not fucking off because you're acting like a child.”

“No. You’re _not._ Nobody _listens_ to me. Nobody remembers what I say. I’m fucking—I’m fucking _annoying._ I’m background noise at best, and a nightmare to put up with at worst. _Blessed silence,_ remember? That’s what you want. Why the _fuck_ have you even put up with me for so long?” Jaskier could feel his chest heaving, a horrid mix of emotions eating away at him, none of which he particularly wanted to put a name to.

Geralt’s head tilt, the confusion in his face, was even more infuriating.

“That was decades ago.”

“So what? I haven’t changed.”

“Haven’t changed?” Geralt shook his head slowly, golden eyes staying locked in Jaskier’s gaze, “you’re hardly the eighteen-year-old boy shoving bread into your pants, Jaskier.”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Jaskier prodded Geralt’s chest, “I’m _loud._ ”

“And I’m not. Jaskier. You’re my friend. I _listen_.”

There was a time when Geralt wouldn’t have admitted that. _You’re my friend._ The words didn’t capture it all, Jaskier didn’t think, but then, maybe it was enough for Geralt. It was certainly an improvement. There had been a time when Geralt wouldn’t have even admitted that.

Whatever Geralt saw on Jaskier’s face, whatever disbelief lay there, he sighed and began to speak.

“You don’t like peas. The last court we visited, the countess was sleeping with her maid and the count with his favoured knight. You know the properties of flowers in potions because of a book you read the winter after we met Yennefer, probably because you wanted to one-up her. You’re a kind person but you know how to wield a knife. Your favourite book is a collection of poetry by your old Professor at Oxenfurt who you once had a crush on, though she’s no longer with us because you didn’t come to Skellige with me four years ago so you could go to her funeral. When you tell the story of how we met you tell it different every time, and when you speak of your parents you say everything but the truth.” Geralt shrugged like he hadn’t just said the most earth-shatteringly wonderful series of sentences, “I know you, Jaskier. I listen.”

Jaskier swallowed, hiding his face because fuck knew what awestruck, embarrassing expression might be painted across his features. “You listen to me.”

“Hmm. To you. To your songs.”

Jaskier pointed a finger, “ha! You can’t have listened to _all_ my songs. Not very well.”

“If you’re referring to the litany of love songs you’ve written about me over the years, believe me, I’ve listened.”

Silence.

“You…what?” Jaskier’s voice was a small squeak.

“Don’t be embarrassed. They’re…flattering. But I assumed you’d move on.” It was Geralt’s turn to hide his face it seemed, gaze downcast.

“They don’t make you uncomfortable?” Jaskier had always figured Geralt didn’t give a crap about his music, except in the capacity that it brought him coin.

“They…make me happy,” Geralt murmured. “Something to hold onto, when you move on.”

Jaskier blinked. Then again. “Hold on, hold on. You listen to me. You know me. You know I write love songs about you and you think I’m going to _move on._ ”

Geralt shrugged, “I’m hardly good enough for you.”

And that—that wouldn’t do at all.

Jaskier kissed him.

What else was there to do?

“Of course you’re good enough for me, you idiot,” he muttered, as he rested his forehead against Geralt’s, their breathing intermingled in the space between their lips, “you _listen_ to me.” A playful smirk flickered across his face, “and tonight, I’m going to listen to _you_ moan my name.”

Geralt pulled back, raised an eyebrow, “are you now? You seem awfully confident.”

Jaskier took that as a challenge.

And that night, he did indeed, listen to Geralt moan his name.

And Geralt listened to him.

And they would go on listening to one another, until the end of their days.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, this is my 30th fic in the witcher fandom. I was going to wait until I had something more substantial to post for the 30th one, but then I was compelled to write this out of Spite because Geralt. Listens. To. Jaskier. Like, okay, I am projecting onto Jaskier here maybe, but as someone who rambles and rambles, I know the pains of knowing most people think you're annoying and most people not listening to you and I know how wonderful it is when you find someone who DOES listen to you. And a lot of fics have Geralt letting Jaskier's ramblings wash over him without listening, which is valid and I enjoy but also...he listens to, okay? 
> 
> Come hang out with me on Tumblr for drabbles, writing and general witchering [@Jaskier-wearing-dresses](https://jaskier-wearing-dresses.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Toss a comment/kudos to your tired fanfic writer?


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